


A Tale of Organic War

by Spillingvelvet



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-08
Updated: 2010-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:52:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spillingvelvet/pseuds/Spillingvelvet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the 2005 LOTRIPS Remix.  Original story: <a href="http://www.livejournal.com/community/monaboyd/188504.html">Fear Of Fridges</a> by ripsgirl.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Tale of Organic War

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2005 LOTRIPS Remix. Original story: [Fear Of Fridges](http://www.livejournal.com/community/monaboyd/188504.html) by ripsgirl.

  


 

***

DISCLAIMER: The author makes no claims or inferences to reality or truthfulness. Moreover, this story is based upon the work of another author and recognises their creation.

* * * * *

It never ends, you know. The battles. The endless, destructive war.  
We reclaim one small patch of territory from the Moulds, and in sweeps  
the Great Hands and their great chemicals and we go back to the  
beginning.

We are of an old tribe, precious. The Colony. From the very oldest  
strain brought here months ago in the Great Kung Po. And what a strain  
we used to be. Strong. Lasting. The weak bacterium of today puts our  
ancestors to shame.

It used to be that we withstood everything They threw at us. The  
poisons we released to keep the Moulds away were potent. It used to be  
that we could spread our DNA across the collective with astonishing  
speed. New resistance and mutations were transferred down to new  
generations and through existing genes within six hours.

It takes us many more now, precious, and we are slowing with lazy age.

And then came the Blue-eyed Boy and he was scared. He used chemicals  
on us, and awful powders. They burned our tiny bodies.

But somehow, we manage to persevere.

He's been gone now, for weeks. We took the opportunity and waged an  
all-out attack on the Fresh. The Bacons were no match for us. Too  
much moisture, not enough salt. We set in on the Fat with voracity.  
Endless replication and division.

We reduced it to a festering pile of goo in less than twelve days.

The Boy was smarter with the Carrots, my love. But not smart enough.  
He cleaned the Fresh well, he did, but he was careless with his  
placement.

What used to be the bacon dripped, precious, and we crossed the clean  
barriers. Once upon that sweet, orange flesh, we set out like the  
starving warriors we've been for many centuries. Pillaging the small,  
rigid cells with relentless vigor. Cucumber followed, and then Strawberries.

We are good at what we do, my love.

The Spaghetti Sauce put up a good fight for our enemies, the Moulds.  
There were Preservatives in the tomato goop. But there are limits on  
such defenses, and we have all the time in the world. They waited,  
precious, and planned their assault diligently whilst we slipped into  
the Milk. We left it to them to wait and watch; we take action while  
elsewhere there is idle threat. Milk turned to curdle to primative  
cheese.

Time ran out for the Moulds.

We attacked from our position under the rim of the crusty lid. Our  
poisons were getting stronger and more effective against the Moulds.  
We were winning.

We would have conquered the entire jar, were it not for the Two.

They came in fast, pulling our precious battlefields from the Box with  
no ceremony, no respect. They spoke with disgust in their voices. We  
found our Colony split between the Box and the Trash. But we mourned  
little for our fallen comrades, knowing they were on their way to  
delicious mounds of flesh and fruit and dairy. Their entire lives  
spent feeding in the damp dark, under a crust of others junk.

The Two did not use the powders, precious, nor the liquid pain. They  
threw our brethren away and left us to our stark, barren surfaces. We  
planned, we did. We retreated to our corners.

And we will strike again, my love, for they have left Beer.

***

  
  
---  
  



End file.
